


Guilt

by PhoenixAccio



Category: Hunt Down The Freeman (Video Game)
Genre: (but like. at least partially warranted. he did kill someone), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Dissociation, Guilt, Kissing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Self-Hatred, mitch has more realistic scars, oops! mitchell did a murder!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26992087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixAccio/pseuds/PhoenixAccio
Summary: How do you deal with 20 years of misplaced hatred? How do you deal with learning the person you should have been hating has been by your side this whole time? How do you deal with having trusted him with the very life he took?What do you do once he's dead?
Relationships: Mitchell Shephard/Nick (Hunt Down The Freeman)
Kudos: 7





	Guilt

Adam was dead.

He was dead, and Mitch hadn't expected it to affect him this much. He was a seasoned marine after all, he'd killed people, _plenty_ of people, and Adam had killed him first (and god if that didn't make Mitch sick to think about.) Why was this different? Mitch felt too young again, shaking and dizzy like he hadn't since his very first kill. Were his hand not locked iron-rigid around the grip of his gun, Mitch was sure would have dropped it. He half wished he would. There was blood on his boots. On his shirt. He could smell it. He knew he'd be smelling it for days, maybe even longer. Mitch looked up. He was in front of Nick's bedroom door. He didn't remember getting there. The door was cracked, and Mitch could see Nick sitting on his bed, arms wrapped around himself and shaking almost as hard as Mitch was. Mitch hesitated. He opened his mouth, but his voice did not seem to be working at the moment, so he closed it again and pushed the door open with his shoulder wide enough to allow him passage.

The door creaked when it opened, and Mitch was acutely aware of the sound his footsteps made on the cabin floor. Nick, alerted by the sound, looked back over his shoulder at Mitchell. His eyes were red, his face streaked with tears. He seemed too tired to be angry at Mitch for what he'd done. Mitch took a few steps closer to Nick, and stopped.

"It was him," Nick said softly. His voice was so quiet Mitch wouldn't have heard him but for the oppressive silence permeating Nick's cabin. Mitch nodded, face flat. He felt numb.

Nick moved over, clearly making space for Mitch beside him on the bed. Mitch felt ill. He didn't deserve it. When Nick didn't change his mind after a tense pause, Mitch blinked, and mechanically sat down. Giving another guilt-inducing shudder, Nick looked up at Mitch's (broken, disgusting) face. He looked lost. He looked how Mitch felt, under the numb. Nick dropped against Mitch's side, burying his face in his shoulder. Mitch felt like his chest was collapsing (again) and shook harder. His hands always had a tremor to them, but it was especially bad now, and only got worse as Nick's head turned and his careful, gentle hands pulled the gun from Mitchell's own. They had all the same calluses as Mitch's had, but somehow felt totally different. Safe and protective like Mitch had never been, no matter how hard he tried. Mitch's hands were meant to break, not fix. He knew that, he'd known it his whole life, it had been a mistake to let himself forget.

Nick flicked the gun's safety on and placed it behind them on the bed, before curling back into Mitch's side.

"He's dead," Mitch said dully after some time of this. He felt Nick nod.

"That's what I wanted, right? I killed the man who killed me, even if it wasn't Freeman."

He sat, staring at his hands as they trembled. Staring at Nick's hands as they curled, tentative, around his own.

"So why do i feel so guilty?"

Mitch didn't know how Nick would react to that. Maybe tell him he's being stupid, or weak for acting so green at his age.

He definitely didn't expect to be kissed.

Nick's lips were on his, though, closed-mouth as things could get with the gap in Mitch's lip, and all Mitch could think about was how little he deserved it. Nick tasted like salt and fear and Mitch wondered what he tasted like. He absently realized that his face was wet too, and not just from contact. He wondered when that had happened. He guessed he tasted like salt too, then. He probably tasted like blood. Mitch didn't exactly kiss Nick back, but he leaned into it, hoping Nick would get the point.

He did, apparently, and they just sat there for a while, mouths pressed together in not-quite-a-kiss, finding comfort in the other's presence. Mitch felt as the shock and numbing (disgusting) battle high finally began to dissipate, and his shoulders started shaking in earnest. Nick pulled back, drawing an embarrassing little whine from Mitch at the loss of contact.

"You alright?"

Mitch tried to lie, tried to say yes, but what came out instead was a gasping sob as he finally broke. He couldn't breathe around the tightness in his throat, and he gasped against Nick as the tears came properly. Mitch choked out Nick's name and curled into his warm, solid chest, trembling violently.

 _"Nick, Nick, Nick,"_ Mitch repeated, unable to think anything else. "I- Why did I- he didn't deserve-"

He took a deep desperate breath like he was drowning, air turning into another wail as he let it out too fast. Nick's arms pulled tight around Mitchell's back, just enough to make him feel safe but not trapped, powerful muscle from years of manual labour dense and sturdy against Mitchell's dead weight. Nick was shaking too, nearly as much as Mitchell was, but for all Mitch wished he could comfort Nick, he knew he couldn't move his arms if he tried. It didn't ease Mitch's guilt when Nick held him until he was too tired and dehydrated to cry any more, or when Nick brushed Mitch's tear-wet hair out of his eyes and carefully pulled off his boots and bloody shirt, put the gun on the bedside table and helped Mitch lay down on the bed. It didn't ease Mitch's guilt when Nick lay down beside him, curling against Mitch, comforting and safe, or when Nick fell asleep quickly, easily, like Mitch couldn't possibly be a threat. It didn't make Mitch feel any better about the sinkhole in his chest, but Nick was warm, and Nick was safe, and Nick was familiar in a way Mitch had yet to ruin, and when Mitchell woke up from inevitable nightmares, Nick was there, breathing and whole. 

Mitch didn't feel better, or even good. He didn't know if he ever would, or if he even deserved to. Right now, though, Mitch was warm and he was safe and he wasn't alone, and that could be enough.

Mitch was sure if he told himself that enough times he might even start to believe it.


End file.
